“You’ve Forgotten the Number”
“Mum, how many times?!” Emily slammed her mobile onto the table so hard the screen flickered and died. “Every bloody day, the same thing!”
“Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to—” Margaret clutched her old button phone, the numbers long worn away by time. “I just forgot again. My memory’s not what it was.”
“Forgot!” Emily shot up from the sofa, pacing the room. “Mum, I’ve shown you a hundred times! You press the green button when it rings. The green one! Not red, not blue—green!”
“I did press green…”
“No, you pressed red—I heard the busy signal. That means you hung up on me!”
Margaret looked helplessly at her daughter, then at the phone—small, black, its buttons either too tiny or too bright. She remembered when there was one landline for the entire terrace, shared by all the neighbours. Simpler times.
“Love, maybe I don’t need this thing?” she murmured. “We managed without mobiles before.”
“Mum!” Emily froze, eyes widening as if struck. “What if something happens to you? What if I’m worried sick? What if—”
“Alright, alright,” Margaret conceded. “I’ll keep trying. Show me again.”
Emily sat beside her, taking the phone. Her fingers—manicured, smooth—dwarfed Margaret’s own, speckled with age and knotted with years.
“Watch, Mum. When it rings, the screen lights up. See? Green button on the left—‘answer.’ Red on the right—‘decline.’ Green means yes, red means no.”
“Green yes, red no,” Margaret repeated. “What if I mix them up?”
“You won’t,” Emily sighed. “Think of green like grass—safe, good. Red like… danger. Bad.”
Margaret nodded, though grass and danger made no sense. “And how do I call you?”
“We’ve gone over this. Tap my picture in contacts. Look—I set it up. Here’s my photo, labelled ‘Emily my girl.’ Tap it, and it dials me.”
Margaret studied the screen. Emily’s photo—bright, smiling—nothing like the tired woman before her now.
“What if I forget where your picture is?”
“It’s at the top of the list! The very first one!”
“Right. And if the phone breaks?”
“It won’t. Look—” Emily rubbed her temples. “I’ll write my number on the fridge. Big and bold. You can call from the landline.”
“We don’t have a landline. You said it was pointless with a mobile.”
“Then ask a neighbour.”
“Which neighbour?” Margaret floundered. “They’re all young, busy. No time for chats.”
“Mum—” Emily sank onto the sofa, face in her hands. “I don’t know what to do. I call every day, and you don’t answer. I panic, rush over—and you’re fine. Just pressed the wrong button.”
“I’m sorry, love. I never mean to upset you.”
“I know. But you do.”
Margaret stared at her hands. These hands had cooked Sunday roasts, scrubbed floors, cradled a tiny Emily. They’d done everything. Now they fumbled over buttons.
“Remember,” she said suddenly, “your toy phone? Pink, with huge buttons. You’d ‘call’ Auntie Margie for hours.”
“I remember. It taught me numbers.”
“Now I’m the one learning numbers.” Margaret smiled sadly. “How tables turn.”
Emily edged closer. “Let’s try again. Slowly. I’ll call now—you answer. Deal?”
“Deal.”
Emily dialled. Margaret’s phone buzzed, her daughter’s face flashing up.
“See my photo? Now press green—here.”
Margaret hesitated. She knew it was green. Yet her finger hovered toward red.
“No! This one!” Emily grabbed her wrist. “Green!”
“Sorry, I know, I know—”
She jabbed green. A dial tone. Then Emily’s voice—both in the room and through the speaker.
“Hello? Mum, can you hear me?”
“I can! It worked!”
“Brilliant!” Emily ended the call. “See? Easy. Again.”
They practised for half an hour. Ten calls. Margaret answered seven correctly. Three times, red won.
“Why do you press red?” Emily asked. “You know it’s green.”
“I do. But red’s bigger. Or brighter.”
“Should we get you a different phone? One with huge buttons?”
“No.” Margaret clutched her mobile. “You gave me this for my birthday. I’ll get used to it.”
Emily kissed her cheek. “I’m off to work. We’ll practise tomorrow.”
Left alone, Margaret stared at the phone. Small, light—yet so complicated. She tried calling Emily. The ringing terrified her—what if she worried her?—and she hung up.
By evening, she could dial. But answering? Her hands shook, betraying her.
Next day, Emily arrived frazzled.
“Mum, you rang me fifteen times! I nearly left work early!”
“I was practising.”
“Practise without calling! Just pretend!”
“But how will I know I got it right?”
“If you hear ringing, it’s right. Busy signal—wrong.”
“Oh. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Emily sat beside her. “I call every day. Visit too. But I can’t be here always. I’ve got my own life.”
“I know, love. I don’t expect you to be. I’m just… scared.”
“Of what?”
“Everything. The phone breaking. Falling ill. Forgetting your number.”
“Mum, your contacts are saved. I’ve written it everywhere—purse, fridge, notepad.”
Margaret nodded, but fear lingered. She once knew every number by heart—neighbours, GPs, Emily’s school. Now she barely recalled her own.
“Numbers used to be five digits,” she murmured. “Now it’s eleven. How’s anyone meant to remember?”
“You don’t need to. That’s what contacts are for.”
“What if I forget how to use those?”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I forgot my glasses yesterday—they were on my head! Couldn’t recall Mrs. Hodgson’s name, and she’s lived below us for fifteen years!”
“That’s normal, Mum. Everyone forgets.”
“Not you.”
“Course I do! Last week I left the shopping list at home—stood in Tesco, blank as a plank.”
“That’s different. You’re young. I’m just… old.”
“Age doesn’t mean stop learning. Auntie Joan’s seventy-six—posts grandkids’ photos online.”
“She’s clever.”
“So are you. Just need patience.”
Margaret studied her daughter—her father’s dark eyes, but softer, kinder. Like her own.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s try again. But don’t be cross if I muck it up.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
They drilled calls, then texts—too tricky for now.
“Never mind texts,” Emily said. “Just master calling.”
“How did people manage without mobiles?”
“Families lived together. Grans, parents, kids—all under one roof.”
Margaret sighed. “When I was small, six of us in two rooms. Cramped, but never lonely.”
“Do you… want to live together?”
“No, love. You’ve your own life. Just gets quiet sometimes.”
“Invite someone over! Neighbours, friends—”
“What friends? They’ve all passed or moved away. And neighbours are strangers.”
“What about a club? Or the library?”
“Clubs are for young ones.”
“No—there’s groups for seniors. Knitting, painting, choir.”
“I can’t knit, paint, or sing.”
“You can learn. Like with the phone.”
Margaret considered it. She’d been a bookkeeper—no time for hobbies. Now time stretched empty before her.
“I’ll think on it,” she said. “But first—this phone.”
Emily hugged her. “Tell you what—take my old one. Big buttons, simple screen. I’ll keep this as a spare.”
“But you gave me this.”
“And I’ll give you another. Whatever helps.”
“Thank you, love. You’re so kind.”
“I love you, Mum. I just want you safe.”
“I’m safe with you. Even when we row over phones.”
They laughed. Emily pulled out her old mobile—clunky, friendly. Margaret held it like a lifeline.
“This feels better,” she said. “Like it’s meant for me.”
“Good. Tomorrow I’ll transfer your contacts.”
“Perfect. Now—tea? I’ve made apple crumble.”
“Your famous crumble?”
“The very one. Remember how you’d beg for seconds?”
Emily grinned. “Still do.”
In the kitchen, Margaret pouredAs they shared the warm crumble, Margaret reached for Emily’s hand, realizing that love, like learning, needed patience—and sometimes, all the time in the world.
